Pulling up the restaurant delivery app on my phone, I peruse my options for dinner.

Justin was planning to come over tonight, but I texted him before I left school that something had come up and I was no longer able to hang out. Thankfully he didn’t ask why, and I didn’t have to divulge that it was because of the volcano of blood erupting between my legs that visits every month. I’m pretty sure there’s a rule against sharing such private information with your fuck buddy. Your boyfriend? No problem, you can gross him out with all the gory details and use it to your advantage to have him bring you chocolate, or ice cream, or even chop suey. But your hookup? No, he didn’t need such private information. I don’t want to scare the poor guy away. I’m enjoying our time way too much for that.

I’ve done a good job so far of keeping my emotional distance from him, and this is just one more example of how calm and in control I am. Even Becca has been impressed that I’ve managed to keep things so casual between us.

I place an order for Japanese—my favorite veggie roll and hot and sour soup, and then grab the remote. I turn on my show, but my mind is still focused elsewhere.

Last week I’d made dinner for Owen and Justin and it had felt like such naughty, delicious fun hiding my secret affair from my brother. I’ve never kept a secret from Owen, especially not one this gigantic. And I know this isn’t going to last forever, and I’m determined to have fun with it while I can. I know that eventually this thing between us will fizzle out and I’ll go back to being just friends with Justin, and that I’ll have to be okay with seeing him with other girls. But it’s not something I’m ready to think about just yet.

The memories of our sleepover, of the sex and the pancakes … it was literally perfect.

My phone chimes from the coffee table, but it’s way too soon for my delivery order to be here. When I grab it, I see a text from Justin.

Are you sure you can’t hang out tonight?

I smile and type out my reply.

I’m sure. You can make it one night without me, can’t you, big boy? ;)

It’s meant to be playful, but as soon as I’ve sent the message, realization strikes and a pit settles low in my stomach. We haven’t slept together in over a week. Between his travel schedule and my life, it hasn’t always been easy to find the time. And if there’s one thing I know about Justin, he’s used to getting it on the regular. I know he said we’re exclusive, but honestly the man has never had to wait around for sex. He probably hasn’t been told no since the moment he was first drafted. For a second I worry that he’s going to get bored with me and want to move on. But then my phone chirps again.

I’ve been jacking it every night to thoughts of you. I feel like a fucking teenager again.

Even if my vagina is out of commission tonight, arousal stirs in my veins.

That’s a nice visual.

I’m about to type more to him, to keep the flirting going when I get a text message from Becca.

What are you up to tonight? Want to grab dinner? I’m not far from your place.

I grin at her message, then type:

If I hadn’t just ordered food, maybe. But I have cramps and just want to lay in bed and watch bad TV.

She sends back: That sounds amazing. You have fun with that.

While I wait for my food to arrive, I distract myself with my phone, texting Becca occasionally and scrolling through my social media feed.

I glance down and see a new text on my phone.

I’m at the store. You need anything?

Becca is a life saver.

Yes, actually I need tampons.

As soon as I click send, the horror of what I’ve just done sets in and my mouth drops open. I just texted that to Justin—not Becca. He wrote that he’s at the store. I mixed up their threads. Oh dear God. What have I done? I feel like a freaking idiot for sending that to him.

He replies a second later.

…Okay? You need me to? I can …

My eyes widen. “No, no, no, no!” I shout at the phone.

Omg. Sorry, no. I thought I was writing to Becca. Please ignore me.

He doesn’t honestly think I would expect him to bring me feminine products, does he? I pray to God he just lets this drop, but something tells me he’s not going to.

Well now I’m in the aisle, so you might as well tell me what you need. I wanna get the right kind. There’s a fuckton of options.

It’s official, I’m now mortified. Beyond mortified. I actually don’t need tampons anymore because I’ve just died. This hulk of a man, a pro athlete no less, is standing in the tampon aisle determined to make sure he ‘gets the right kind.’ This is not what’s meant by friends with benefits. Someone’s going to see him and he’s going to be all over social media at any moment. What. Have. I. Done?

Don’t worry about it. I really didn’t mean to send that to you.

His reply comes in almost immediately.

Consider me worried. This is your vagina we’re talking about. I need it in tip top shape, ready for me in a few days. Now tell me what to get you.

A half-smile lifts my mouth as I shake my head. His logic is flawed, even if it’s adorable. I want to tell him to forget it, but this is Justin and I have a feeling I won’t win this argument.

Just a box of tampons please, the blue box.

I click send and settle back on the couch, tugging the throw blanket over my lap.

Okay and what are we talking for flow level? There’s light, regular and mega.

I hope for your sake it’s not mega.

I chuckle as I read his message and shake my head as my thumbs get to work composing my reply.

Regular.

I cannot fucking believe I’m having this conversation with him. A huge part of me is mortified, and the other part is completely amused, my stomach turning somersaults with each new message.

How do you feel about applicators – yes or no?

Oh dear God. My face heats up and I want to strangle him through the phone. Why is he making this so difficult?

Doesn’t matter, I write back.

Applicator is fine.

Applicator it is. (Though I don’t know what that means for the record), he sends back.

I picture him, this big, brawny man standing in the feminine care aisle, perusing over every box and label with care. Why does my heart melt a little at that visual?

Now let’s talk scents.

My eyes widen and I bark out a laugh. He’s insane. He’s certifiably insane.

Just get anything. Seriously, just grab it and get out of there.

Hush. I’m doing this right. Now, what would you like your love muffin to smell like? The options are: lavender hibiscus, fresh cotton, or tropical citrus.

My love muffin? Is that what he calls it?

JUST PICK SOMETHING AND GET OUT OF THE DAMN STORE.

Roger that.

I’m still reeling from our text conversation when my food is delivered. I set it on the counter and retrieve a plate, but I’m distracted.

I definitely feel a little strange about that whole text exchange, but honestly? Not that strange, because it’s Justin, and I’ve never hidden anything from him. We’ve been friends for so long, and he just gets me. He understands my relationship with my brother, he gets my love-hate relationship with hockey. He accepts my love of fast food tacos and my obsession with watching nature shows. We watched an entire episode the other night while on the phone—him in his bed, me in mine. It was about how polar bears hunt and catch beluga whales in openings in the ice. Seriously, it was so good.

But best of all, he understands my need to explore this thing between us. That’s a win-win in my book.

Only now … things are changing. I can’t even pinpoint what, it’s just I know that something has shifted.

A buzzing of my intercom interrupts my thoughts. Justin is here, and I leave my food on the counter to answer it. If I hadn’t known him for twenty years, I’d probably be a little embarrassed to be seen like I am—dressed in a pair of baggy gray sweatpants and t-shirt with my hair up in a messy bun—but I’m sure he’s seen me look worse than this, so I’m not going to stress over it. Plus, he’s not my boyfriend, so it’s not like I have to work to impress him. Another perk to just being fuck buddies.

I pull open my door and almost swoon at the sight of him. He looks like he’s just come from the gym, dressed in a pair of black athletic joggers, sneakers, and a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to reveal his thick forearms.

His mouth lifts in a wry smile as he holds up a shopping bag. “Mi’lady.”

I chuckle at him, and accept the bag. “You did not have to do that. But thank you.”

“It was nothing.” He grins at me and leans a little closer, and I’m not sure if he wants to kiss me. “I also bought you chocolate, because I read somewhere that women crave chocolate when they’re on their period.”

“Oh.” I swallow, completely at a loss for words. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He grins at me. “Can I ask you something?”

I nod.

“Was your … condition … the reason you didn’t want to hang out tonight?”

I smirk at him. “My condition? It’s not a disease, you know.”